This is an idea that has been kicking around in my head for some time. What happens to Tommy as he loses allies and his enemies close in? The first in a multi-chapter story.
I don't own any of the characters except for the ones that I created for this story. GTA Vice City and its characters are property of Rockstar Games.
Tommy Vercetti sat in his office at the Malibu Club and counted the “take” from the previous night. It was 9 AM, and at this hour the club was empty of everyone but him. The place wouldn’t open for several more hours, and wouldn’t get truly jumping until the sun went down. Tourists and Vice City residents alike flocked to the nightclub. The neon light, hot dance music, and plentiful supply of cocaine made it the hottest night spot in town. It had proven to be a welcomed cash cow for Tommy, who used to Malibu’s profits (along with the profits from his other businesses) to launder his millions in illegal cash.
Three months had passed since Tommy had killed Sonny Forelli and become the undisputed kingpin of the South Florida drug trade. The area’s insatiable thirst for cocaine helped him rake in hundreds of thousands of dollars every week, and had made him a millionaire many times over. Meanwhile, his various investments in well-established local companies made him look like a legitimate businessman to most people.
The police, and DEA knew better. However, thanks to Tommy’s generous “contributions” to the “pensions” of many Vice City police officers, the vast majority of the VCPD looked the other way while Tommy’s dealers and thugs had the run of the city.
Mike Boone, the Assistant Special Agent in Charge of South Florida’s DEA office, had been taking bribes from Diaz back when the Colombian ran things. Tommy wanted to make sure the Federal agent continued to play ball. Ken Rosenberg invited Boone to lunch at a trendy bar along Vice Beach, and made it clear that if Mike took care of Tommy, Tommy would take care of Mike. Now Mike Boone received an envelope of cash each week from Ken Rosenberg. In appreciation, Mike sent his agents after most of Tommy's competition.
The sound of his cell phone chirping interrupted Tommy's count.
“Hello?” he answered in a slightly annoyed tone.
“Hello, Tomas! It’s Cortez.”
“Great to hear from you, Colonel!” Tommy responded.
Hearing the voice of Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez made Tommy smile. He had been one of the few people in Vice City who had been a loyal friend to Tommy from the very start. The Colonel had left Vice City several months back to initiate a revolution in his native country of Val Grande. The revolution had been a success, and the colonel had been instrumental in rebuilding the government. Though a new civilian president had taken power after the revolution, the prevailing wisdom was that Cortez and the military really ran things now.
Cortez chuckled. “Please, Tommy. We’ve known each other long enough. Call me Juan.”
“What can I do for you today, Juan?”
“Actually, I would like to talk about what I can do for you, Tomas. I want to introduce you to a friend of mine down here in Val Grande. I think he will be very good for your business. Can you fly down and meet with me tomorrow?”
Tommy was taken a bit aback, but he knew that Cortez wouldn’t ask to meet with him unless something important was going down.”
“Surel,” Tommy agreed. “I’ll go down for a visit.”
“Perfect. I own an airstrip out in Gator Cove. I’ll have a plane waiting for you there at 8am. Bring your associate, Mr. Rosenberg.” Cortez gave Tommy directions to the airstrip, and ended the call.
Tommy dialed Ken Rosenberg as he walked out to his car. “Ken, it’s Tommy. Pack your bags. We’re flying down to Val Grande tomorrow.”
All of the movers and shakers in Vice City belonged to Leaf Links Country Club. Mike Boone had joined soon after taking charge of the DEA’s field office in town. Normally, the club’s membership dues would be tough for a guy on a government salary to afford. However, Mike wasn’t a typical government agent.
He pulled up to the country club’s front entrance in his gleaming white Albany Washington. Mike took pride in the luxury car and made a point to try and wash it every morning.
“Good morning, Mr. Boone,” the parking valet said as Mike handed him his keys and a $20 tip.
“Good morning, Cesar.” Mike answered. He was dressed to the nines in a white tailored suit and blue monogrammed Polo shirt. He wasn’t at the club to play golf today. Instead, he would be having an early lunch with an important new acquaintance. The DEA agent found a seat in the club’s bar and ordered a mojito.
Mike’s lunch guest arrived before his drink did. The hispanic man’s white dress shirt was soaked with sweat under the armpits. He did not look like he was used to the thick South Florida humidity. From what Mike had heard about him, he was more accustomed to the arid, deserts of Sonora, Mexico.
“Good morning, Agent Boone. I take it you are well, this morning.” the man said as he sat down.
Mike nodded his greeting. “Welcome to Vice City, Mr. Torres. Would you like a drink? This place has some of the best mojitos in town.”
As if on cue, a waiter arrived with Mike’s drink. The waiter gave the sweaty, slightly disheveled Mexican a condescending look. “Can I get you something...sir?”
Renaldo Torres tried to ignore the way the waiter was treating him. “A rum punch, please.”
Mike shook his head as the waited walked off. “I’m telling you, you’re missing out on those mojitos...”
“Let’s get down to business, Agent Boone,” Torres cut him off. “I represent a group of men who are interested in expanding their business into Vice City. My bossed want to ensure that we have a good relationship with the DEA.”
Boone took a long sip of his drink. “Your bosses are very intelligent men. What does all of that have to do with me?” Mike knew damn well what it had to do with him, but it was smart to play coy during meetings like these.
“We want the cooperation of your office. I was told that you were the man to speak to about that.”
“You want me to warn you of upcoming raids so that you can keep your dealers off the street? Maybe shake down the competition?”
Torres smiled. “It sounds like we are on the same page...as you Americans are fond of saying. Of course, we will reward you handsomely for such valuable information.”
Mike sat back and folded his arms. “What if I told you that I already have a similar arrangement with someone else?”
“My bosses would be willing to pay triple whatever amount anyone else if paying you.”
Mike whistled softly. That would mean a lot of money for him. His mistress had been whining about him getting her an apartment near the DEA office downtown so that they could meet more often. With the arrangement on the table, he could make it happen.
“Mr. Torres, you can go back to Mexico and tell your bosses that we have a deal.”
Renaldo Torres smiled. “Thank you, Agent Boone. That’s all we needed to hear.”
As he spoke, several men in blue windbreakers walked into the bar and surrounded Mike Boone.
Torres took out a badge and flashed it to Boone. “Agent Boone, I’m David Moldonado with the DEA’s office of Professional Responsibility. You’re under arrest.”
Mike Boone’s mouth hung open in surprise. One of the agents surrounding him, pulled him up by his arm. “Come with us quietly, sir, and we won’t drag you out of here in handcuffs.”
Agent Moldonado shook his head. “Luxury car, fancy suits, membership at a swanky country club like this...with racist ass waiters, by the way. You brought this on yourself, Boone.”
ASAC Mike Boone of the DEA’s Vice City field office was lead out of the building as the rest of the bar’s shocked patrons looked on.
Things were about to get a lot worse for the drug dealers in Vice City.
Val Grande is a Central American nation I made up to serve as the home country of Col. Cortez. I got the idea from the fictional nation of Val Verde that is mentioned in Commando and Die Hard 2 (among other movies).